


Of Dreams and Red Socks or the Lack Thereof

by angeladex



Series: Dysfunctional Teen Mutant Club [4]
Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: "Bad" Tony Caruso is legit a character I pulled from another series, Bad Tony's A+ parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Dissociation, Dysfunctional Teen Mutant Club, Fifty States in alphabetical order, Gen, Gun Violence, He sucks though, I can do it in less than a minute, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jack Winter's A+ parenting, Jack Winters is a piece of shit, Past Child Abuse, Scott had a shitty childhood, Scott/Rogue kindasorta, Season 1 companion, Threats of Violence, Y'all who can do that party trick?, cross-posted on my ff.net account, more generic tho, non-consensual dream-sharing, the perils of living in a house of mutants who can't control their powers all the time, using dissociation to cope, with pre-series flashback/dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28892370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeladex/pseuds/angeladex
Summary: “Scotty’s an obedient kid, believe it or not,” Jack was saying, bragging to his weird friend. “Ain’tcha Scotty-boy? I always thought so. Took ‘im offa the streets myself, ‘bout a year ago, y’know. He does whatever I tell ‘im to.”A firm shove, and Scott was mobile; he kept his face carefully neutral as he felt the barrel of a gun at his back.Scott dreams a dream, has a conversation about it, and gets his butt kicked at cards. Probably. Set directly after "Turn of the Rogue." Scott/Rogue -ness with a nod to the Dysfunctional Teen Mutant Club. Because I like it.
Relationships: Rogue/Scott Summers
Series: Dysfunctional Teen Mutant Club [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935622
Kudos: 3





	Of Dreams and Red Socks or the Lack Thereof

_“If he don’t do what you say, what d’ya do to ‘im?”_

_Scott was unceremoniously wrenched from the trunk of Jack Winters’ POS car. Jack himself was in conversation with another man –familiar, but nameless, as were most of Jack’s “associates.” Scott didn’t like the other guy. Not that he liked Jack, but the other guy was just creepy._

_“But he_ does _do what I say, don’tcha Scotty?” Jack replied to the other man’s question, cutting the tape from Scott’s wrists. “Tell ‘im, Scotty. You do what I say, right?”_

_Scott was silent, rubbing his wrists. He prised the tape from his own mouth shakily. He’d been in the trunk for hours. He didn’t like the dark. It wasn’t necessarily a fear more than an intense uneasiness. If he went too long without light, he’d get sick. Jack knew that, the bastard, and he’d locked him in anyway._

_“Scotty’s an obedient kid, believe it or not,” Jack was saying, bragging to his weird friend. “Ain’tcha Scotty-boy? I always thought so. Took ‘im offa the streets myself, ‘bout a year ago, y’know. He does whatever I tell ‘im to.”_

_Scott ran his fingers over the other piece of tape that covered his eyes, saying nothing._

_Almost on cue, Jack’s hand gripped Scott’s shoulder quite hard; “But I can usually make the kid see the light if he don’t,” Jack said mysteriously to his friend, and Scott could hear the laughter behind his statement._ No pun intended, _he thought wryly. He could feel the energy pulsing behind his eyes – the tension was making his head throb. He knew that Jack would have him “seeing the light” any minute now, one way or another._

_A firm shove, and Scott was mobile; he kept his face carefully neutral as he felt the barrel of a gun at his back._

_“I read about that in the paper once, Jack; about how humans adapt. They can make a routine out of anything.”_

_The man’s voice was pleasant enough, but Scott couldn’t help but wince at the ever-so-slight increase in pressure at the space between his shoulders. He’d told Jack he’d go willingly – Jack’s well-placed kicks to his stomach had been particularly persuasive. Was the gun really necessary?_

_“Does that apply to freak-kids like him, though? He ain’t human. Whaddaya say, Scotty? D’you adapt?”_

_Scott didn’t give an answer. Jack had started laughing, and obviously didn’t expect one._

_“Chameleons adapt. Why not other animals?” This from the other guy, followed by another round of laughing. The gun’s pressure left his back, and Scott felt relief. Followed by a shove, which surprised him enough that he stumbled to the ground. Another round of laughter, and what was unmistakably the sound of a pistol loading a round into place._

_Scott’s heart hammered in his throat as he was pulled roughly to his feet, and he felt the loaded gun press against his Adam’s apple. Oh God. They were drunk, and they were going to kill him. Inexplicably, his mind started reeling off the fifty states in alphabetical order._

Alabama. Alaska. Arizona. Arkansas. California.

_“Now Scotty, we’ve got an un’nerstandin,’ hey?” A clap on his back that could almost be friendly, even as cool metal of the gun pushed harder into his throat. He reflexively swallowed, finding it difficult. It felt as if his Adam’s apple had retreated into his trachea, and he feared choking on it._

_Scott wordlessly started peeling the tape from his eyes._ It’s a safe. _He promised it was a safe._ I can blast a safe. A safe has no sentient mind, so far as scientists know.

Colorado. Connecticut. Delaware. Florida.

_Jack finally lost patience with Scott’s slow going – his hands had started shaking, and it impeded his ability to properly grasp the tape._

_“This gonna take all night? We gots places to be, Jack.”_

_“I know. This’s necessary though, Tony.”_

_As if to prove Jack’s point, the tape was wrenched off, and Scott’s eyes fluttered open. He saw a safe. He saw through the safe to the concrete beyond. He saw through the concrete to the car –_

_“Shit.” Scott’s heart hammered, and he was very aware of the pressure at his throat. He dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. There weren’t supposed to be cars. He should’ve known they were in a parking garage; should have heard the echoes of their voices bouncing off of the reinforced walls._

_Had someone been in the car? Had he demolished it?_

_“D-d-did I…w-was anyone hurt?” Dammit. He was stuttering again._

_“Shaddup.” A shove at his shoulder – from Jack, who sounded beyond pissed._

_Without warning, there was a cracking sound and fire erupted in his skull. Scott stumbled in shock and pain._ What the hell? What hit me? The gun? _His hands slipped, and he saw Jack’s associate –Tony?—and then he saw another line of cars, resting neatly in their parking spaces, awaiting the return of their owners. He saw through them one at a time, as his eyes blasted holes in them._

_“No!” Scott shoved his hands back into place, forcing his eyes closed. Had he killed Tony? Had he destroyed the cars beyond repair?_

Georgia. Hawaii. Idaho. Illinois. Indiana.

_“Holy shit, Jack! You told me he was the key to gettin' the safe cracked, but he’s better than fuckin’ dynamite! Good God! Lookit my gun!”_

_Relief flooded through Scott. Tony was okay, and the gun was destroyed as an added bonus. He hadn’t killed anyone, so far as he knew. He allowed a small smile to show on his lips, but he heard Jack approach him, and the smile faded._

_“Slip up a bit, did we, Scotty?”_

Shit _. “I-I-I d-d-d-didn’t m-mean t-t-to,” Scott said softly._

Iowa. Kansas. Louisiana. No…Kentucky. Then Louisiana.

 _Jack said nothing._ Shit. **Shit**. _Scott was shoved into mobility once more. Back to the trunk._ For the rest of my natural life, _he assumed_. Which might not be much longer, if Jack’s not even talking. Shit.

_“That’s it? We’re just gonna lock ‘im back inna trunk? Jack, your kid just destroyed my gun.”_

_“I know, Tony.”_

_“If my kid pulled a stunt like that, I’d beat the hell outtuvim!”_

_“An’ Scotty knows my ‘ppreciation of his…slip up. Dontcha, Scotty-boy?”_

_An ominous clap on the back, and he heard a car door open. The sound of duct tape being pulled from its roll. Jack was just enough of a bastard to not care when he taped Scott’s hair to his face. Once Scott’s eyes were firmly covered, he felt a punch to his jaw, hard enough that he stumbled back against the car._

Maine. Maryland. Michigan. No, wait. Massachusetts. Then Michigan.

_“See? Yer holdin’ back, Winters. Ya hafta mean it! Else he won’t learn. ‘S what my pop always did ta me.”_

_“I ain’t holdin’ nuthin’ back, Caruso.” A punch deep in Scott’s gut that could have been a kick. He doubled over, the air gone from his lungs, his heart pounding a dent into his skull. He was going to be sick. “I’m jus’ waitin’ ‘till later. Scotty knows that, right?”_

_Jack pulled on the back of Scott’s neck at this last; Scott felt Jack’s fingers scrape against his skin like they were covered in sandpaper. Jack could put a coating of diamonds over his skin at will._ That’s why that last punch was like a sledgehammer, _he realized._

_“Don’t hafta wait on my account, Jack.” Another punch; this one square in the nose. Tony didn’t care about leaving bruises on his face. Jack was usually kind of careful about that._

Mississippi. Missouri. Wait. One’s missing. Montana? No. That comes after Missouri.

_“C’mon, Tony. We ain’t got the time.”_

Milwaukee? That’s not a state. Manhattan? That comes before Mississippi…doesn’t it? But it’s not a state either…

_“Just gotta get my money’s worth outta him for that gun.”_

_“Just don’ make ‘im bleed inna car.”_

_“Fine.”_

_Scott was whirled around, his arm brought forcefully behind him, twisting his arm around to let his wrist meet his shoulder blade._

_“Whaddaya think, kid? A broken arm for a broken gun? Sounds about fair, right?”_

_Scott was spared the luxury of answering as he felt a crack in his wrist, followed by the welcome embrace of unconsciousness._

* * *

“Scott?”

“Minnesota.”

“What?”

Scott Summers drifted slowly awake without actually opening his eyes. It was a habit he’d developed in his youth as an act of self-preservation. The memories leading up to his sleep caught up to him, and he made sure he felt the weight of his special sunglasses on his nose before he allowed his eyes to flutter open. “Rogue?”

“Sorry t’ wake you… Ah should… Ah’ll leave…”

“Is something wrong?” Scott sat up, more alert as he reviewed the events of the day. _Geology club field trip. Mystique. Principal Darkholme. Rogue_. He winced at the memories as his body chose to catch him up to the achy pain he’d not been privy to while he slept.

“Ah…dunno,” Rogue answered him evasively, hovering uncertainly by his bed. “Ah shouldn’t be here. Ah’ll go.”

“Don’t be silly,” Scott insisted, shaking his head to clear the last vestiges of Jack from his mind. He gestured to the foot of his bed – an invitation for Rogue to join him. She sat uncertainly, careful to tuck her bare feet under her as she did so. Or was she wearing socks? It was hard to tell. Maybe the socks were red. He couldn’t see things very well when they were red.

It had been a full day; he’d started it with Nightcrawler landing on top of him when Jean dropped them from the ceiling in their Danger Room Session before school, and included a narrowly avoided bus accident, falling off of a cliff, and taking a sub-zero swim in a mountain stream. Oh yeah, the whole finding out his principal was Mystique. Mustn’t forget that. Oh no no.

“So…trouble sleeping?” he asked after a moment of slightly awkward silence.

Rogue seemed hesitant to speak, though she had to have woken him up for a reason. He was actually kind of grateful she had, if only to put an end to that dream, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try to find out what the reason was before she left the room.

“Ah…don’t sleep well. Not since Ah left Caldecott.”

Scott nodded mutely. He wondered what time it was. If he’d had a good three hours of sleep, he’d be good to just sit up and wait for the day to begin. It had been annoyingly rainy in the past week or so, and while he didn’t mind the wet, he didn’t particularly like the lack of sun. It left him in a constantly uneasy state of mind, and he didn’t much care for it.

“Ah…Ah was jus’ wonderin’ what y’all have t’ do around here for someone who doesn’t plan on sleepin’…” Rogue went on, grinning sheepishly, “Ah had you pegged fer a fellow insomniac, but Ah guess Ah was wrong, huh?”

Scott smiled. “Actually, I don’t usually sleep this soundly…but to my credit, I had a harrowing day.” He indicated the bandage on his head; he’d had a mild concussion, and he and Rogue both had been very cold for a long time from their impromptu dip in the icy waters; it had helped that Storm had been in the jet with them, effectively warming them up and drying them off best she could, whilst a bad tempered Wolverine referred to her as a defective snow plow.

Rogue didn’t say anything, but she bit her lip as if embarrassed. She nodded, and looked as if she might say something else, but decided against it, instead tucking her hair behind her ear.

“How’d you guess I was an insomniac, anyway?” Scott asked, taking the pressure off of her to fill the silence. She looked slightly relieved. “Do I put off a vibe or something?”

Rogue flushed. “Ah didn’ mean anything by it, but,” she tapped her head, “you’re still in here.”

Scott chuckled humorlessly. “What else is in there? The secret to my success at Billiards?”

Rogue still seemed uncomfortable. “Nothin’ much…Ah kinda get that you don’t lahke the dark much…an’…blowin’ up the school or somethin’?…Ah’m not too clear on that…”

“My sophomore year. Good times.”

“Did…did you stutter as a kid?”

Scott blinked. “Uh…yeah. I did.” His dream came back to him briefly. Jack had hated that stutter. Once he’d said he’d sock him once for every letter he tripped over. He’d been true to his word, and Scott had just not spoken for a long time. Better to be silent and assumed stupid than to speak up and be assumed dead.

Rogue paused. “Ah also remember a…a name? Jack.”

Scott paled. “Oh?” His stomach sank. What else had she seen?

“You…didn’t lahke him. Jack, Ah mean.”

“No, I didn’t.”

There was silence, until Rogue broke in awkwardly. “Why did you say ‘Minnesota’ when Ah woke you up?”

“What?” _What?_

“Ah came in t’ wake you up, an’ you said ‘Minnesota,’”

Scott reviewed his dream. The missing state. The one that came before Mississippi and Missouri. Oh. Had she seen the dream, too? “No idea,” he said aloud, grinning; “It must have been leftover from my dream.”

“What’d ya dream about?”

“Dunno,” Scott lied, watching her for a reaction. What had she seen? And would she say anything about it?

“Oh,” Rogue said, sounding disappointed.

Another awkward silence, as Scott shifted on the bed, aware of Rogue’s presence and careful not to touch her bare skin with his own sockless, icy feet. He’d experienced her power once already in the last twenty-four hours, thank you, and did not need another bout of unconsciousness. (Unless she _was_ wearing socks. Red ones.)

He was respectful of the silence – Rogue had taken months in deliberating whether to join the x-men at all; the last thing he wanted to do was force her to say something she didn’t want to say. He was also stubborn, though, and he refused to break the silence first again. It was her turn.

“Ah never know which thoughts are what anymore,” she finally said. “Ah know that dream wasn’t mahne. Ah just wanted t’ let you know.”

Scott nodded. Then, “It wasn’t a dream, you know.”

“Ah know.”

He looked at his hands, realizing he’d been rubbing his wrist. He’d felt the bones snap, and had lived with the pain for a month. On top of Jack still beating the shit out of him and locking him in the trunk again. Not his favorite times.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, getting to his feet, offering his hands to Rogue, who waved her own bare hands at him, politely declining and standing up on her own. He noted that she really was wearing red socks. “Jean, Kurt and I have seen pretty much every movie this mansion has to offer. But I get the vibe from you that movies aren’t your thing. Do you play cards?”

Rogue looked slightly astonished as Scott pointed her to the door, and out into the hallway. “You…you’re not mad?”

Scott shrugged. “You can’t help it, right? It happened with Jean, too. You know. Because of her power.”

Rogue offered a smile. “Ah play a mean California Speed.”

“And here I thought I’d played everything. What’s California Speed?”

“Just a mix between Solitaire, War, and Nerts.”

“How about a game of Billiards?”

“Nahce try.”

The pair drifted down the hallway in pleasant conversation, and Scott couldn’t help but wonder if these late night meetings would be recurring, and whether or not they should discuss having an official club title. He decided that a better stock of movies would be in order. And perhaps matching pajama shirts with a logo.

He’d be game, as long as they weren’t red.


End file.
